Page 8 of Wild Card (Rose Hill #4)

Maybe it was just a little bit of magic. Inexplicable and undeniable all at once.

What I do know for sure is that it’s been eight months, and I still think about Sebastian Rousseau every damn day.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek as they approach the table. Bash looks stoic, his jaw clenched so tight it’s going to be sore tomorrow from all the teeth-grinding he’s doing. Meanwhile, Tripp appears affable and polished as the sun glints a rusty tone off his auburn hair.

“Hey, babe, how you doin’?”

I smile, but it’s forced. “Great. I’m great.”

Except I’m not. Bash won’t even look my way. His gaze stays locked on the water.

The awkwardness gnaws at me. He’s clearly pissed .

Anxiety swirls and the sinking realization that he might be angry over my relationship with Tripp hits hard and fast.

Another caterer passes by, drawing my gaze away from him. “Arancini?” she asks, holding out a tray of bite-sized golden fried spheres.

Tripp and Bash pass, but I jump at the opportunity.

“Hell yes,” I say as I reach for a cocktail napkin.

Partly because I’m hungry, and partly because I figure if my mouth is full, it will give me something to do and possibly spare me from the awkward lie of a conversation that’s about to occur right in front of me.

I take one, then tip my head, considering. They’re small, so I select another and offer the girl a friendly smile as she departs.

Tripp leans close and drops another casual kiss on my hair with a light chuckle. “Easy, girl. Don’t eat too much.”

Easy, girl ?

I pause, my brows furrowing as I stare down at the two bite-size pieces of food on the napkin in my hand, wondering if I misheard my “boyfriend.”

Did he really just tell me not to eat too much?

“The fuck did you just say to her?” Bash’s voice is cold as ice from across the table.

I can’t bring myself to face him, but I do look up, eyes tracing Tripp’s svelte physique as I make my way up to his face.

“All in good fun, right, babe?” He winks at me, like I’m in on his joke, and turns his attention to his dad, who is staring daggers at him.

“No. Not in good fun,” Bash says. “That was plain rude.”

Tripp scoffs and waves him off. “It was a joke. I just meant save some room for dinner. Don’t make it into something else.”

I shift away from Tripp, not liking the version of him that comes out to play around his family.

It was rude. And manipulative. An unwelcome commentary on what and how much I’m eating disguised as a joke—a tactic my dad employed masterfully when I was younger.

“Hilarious,” I say sarcastically before popping one ball of rice into my mouth. “A real knee-slapper, babe .”

Tripp winces, and I can see the apology in his eyes. I shake my head subtly back at him. If today has proven anything, it’s that he acts like an asshole around his family.

It’s like I’m dating Dr. Jekyll—and Mr. Hyde has just come out to play.

He says nothing, so I give him a thumbs-up before lifting the second one in a salute. “Cheers, boys.” I stand and add, “I’ll be back. Gonna go see what other snacks I can track down to fill up on.”

As I depart, their staccato murmurs trail behind me, but the hum of the surrounding party swallows any words I might be able to make out. What I can tell is that, for the first time today, Bash is pissed at Tripp rather than just in general.

I finish chewing the arancini, but I don’t taste it. And I don’t bother looking for more snacks. It feels like every pair of eyes here is trained on me—the curvy, hippie chick Cecilia’s golden boy randomly brought home.

I slip into the house and make a beeline for one of the many bathrooms on the main floor.

It’s a small powder room and not the closest one to the backyard, so I’m hoping it’s a private spot to hide out for a few minutes.

Once inside, I shut the door behind me, lean back against it, and drop my chin to my chest, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Fuck me,” I mutter quietly, a disbelieving laugh spilling from my lips.

But the vibration of a knock, followed by a deep voice that makes my stomach flip over on itself, cuts my amusement short.

“Gwen? Open up.”

Bash chooses now to follow through? Infuriating. He’s got no business.

“I don’t think that would be very appropriate” is what I say back.

But Bash isn’t deterred. “Too bad. I’m coming in.” The weight of him pushes on the door, like he thinks he’s just going to blast his way in here or something.

Not wanting to cause a scene, I step away and turn the handle. “What the hell, Bash? Someone is going to see and?—”

He steps in with authority, crowding me into the small room, before spinning and locking the door.

“What are you doing here?” he asks quietly, still not turning to face me. His broad shoulders heave as he breathes.

He knows damn well what I’m doing here. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Visiting my son for his birthday. And you knew about that.” He whirls around, accusation flaring in his eyes as his index finger jabs the air in front of me.

“You knew I’d just found out about my son.

We were in the Vancouver airport for crying out loud.

He told you about me, and you thought, what?

That it would be funny to ignore me and date him instead? ”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Gwen. What kind of sick joke are you playing?”

Bash is riled up—his chest rising and falling, his hands shaking—but as furious as he seems with me, I don’t feel threatened at all. No, I press my shoulders back, cross my arms, and square off, meeting his blazing gaze with my own.

But as I stand my ground, I try not to slip down the rabbit hole where I fixate on our night in the airport. A safe place I like to sink into when I feel like torturing myself.

“I should ask you the same thing. You didn’t care enough to contact me, but now you’re going to stomp around all mad because I’m dating your son?”

His jaw works. “Are you—?” He stops and averts his gaze from me, shaking his head tightly. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

His look of disbelief, as though he’s offended, washes over me, leaving me chilled.

“No,” I whisper, the sinking feeling that something is very, very wrong suffusing my body.

“No, you know what? Here.” He pulls out his phone and jabs the screen with his finger like he’s trying to break it. Then he hands it to me. “ You ghosted me . So don’t bother playing dumb. I can handle the rejection but not being treated like I’m an idiot.”

I stare at the screen, showing a few texts sent a couple of weeks apart. Delivered but never responded to by me. A growing sensation of panic takes root in my gut.

“I never got these.”

I never got these. I never got these. I never got these.

He scoffs, and my eyes flit to the contact name. Gwen Margaritas.

Tears spring to my eyes as my shaking finger taps the icon. I read the number. 555-7669.

Six- six -nine.

“Honestly, you don’t owe me anything,” Bash rants on as realization settles in my bones. “But this is just fucking weird. And what’s worse is he’s out there disrespecting you to your face, and that makes me want to break something…”

Without thinking, I reach for him, my palm landing flat on his chest to still him. Every muscle in his body tenses. “Bash.”

“What?” He spits the word, glaring down at my hand like my touch offends him. But he doesn’t shake me off.

“The number is wrong.” He blinks as I hold his phone out, open to the contact card. “It’s six-nine-nine not six-six-nine.”

His sharp inhale launches the small powder room into silence. You could hear a pin drop. I don’t think either of us is breathing.

“I never got your messages, and if I had…” I swallow, trailing off and licking my lips. “I…” A frustrated groan lurches from my throat when I see the devastation etched on this man’s face as he looks beyond me, staring blankly at the perfectly white wall.

He’s gutted. I see it on his face. I feel it in his body.

Hell, I can feel it in my own. This is a cruel, cruel joke. Because I may not know him well, but I ache for him all the same. I would have chosen him .

I curl my fingers, gripping his cotton T-shirt—trying to get his attention, to drive my point home. “Bash, I waited months for you to contact me. If I’d gotten those messages… You have to know I would have responded.”

My voice turns almost pleading as I repeat, “I would have.”

His eyes scour my face as though checking for any signs of deceit. He looks how I feel.

Sucker punched.

He takes the phone from me, gaze boring into the incorrectly entered number. An understandable mistake for someone who stayed up all night.

I should have taken his number.

We should have planned better.

His lips twitch, and his Adam’s apple bobs, but he doesn’t look back up at me.

Instead, without another word, he turns, yanks the door open, and storms out.

I stand there, frozen—shaken. And that feeling is only made worse when, several seconds later, I hear a loud, “Fuck!” followed by what sounds an awful lot like a fist going through a wall.